


if not to heaven

by damnedscribblingwoman



Series: kings, queens, knights everywhere you look [1]
Category: Historical RPF, The Lion in Winter (1968)
Genre: Complicated Relationships, Consent Issues, Dysfunctional Family, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Canon, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-01
Updated: 2018-01-01
Packaged: 2019-02-16 03:35:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13045656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/damnedscribblingwoman/pseuds/damnedscribblingwoman
Summary: Henry and Eleanor had raised no children. They had raised princes and dukes and counts, and whatever John was, but no children. Just powerful strangers with too much to prove at each other's expense.





	if not to heaven

**Author's Note:**

  * For [blueteak](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueteak/gifts).



> A very big thank you to Minim Calibre for beta reading this story, and to Raistlin for putting up with my constant existential doubts. Any remaining mistakes are my own. 
> 
> A huge thank you also to blueteak for the inspiration. I hope you enjoy the story!

**Chinon, 1183**

Geoffrey's hurried steps echoed in the relative quiet of the almost-deserted corridor. What guards there were stood up straighter, looking watchful and alert despite the late hour, but no one tried to stop him, and no one stood in his way. In truth he did not expect them to, knew that what danger there had been was behind him, but still did not slow down until he was out on the ramparts, under the open sky. Chinon Castle loomed behind him, its windows shining like fireflies in the darkness, but it was Vaudreuil he saw, with its thick walls, and high towers, and dungeons buried deep underground. 

"Hellfire and damnation," he muttered, clinging to the wall, willing his head to stop spinning. Too much wine. Too much wine and not enough sense to save the drinking until he was well away from this accursed place and back in his own lands. 

It had seemed like as good a notion as any. Philip was gone, and Eleanor was gone, and anyone with a hand to play had played it and lost — everyone save perhaps Philip, who always was an eager audience for Plantagenets feasting on each other. There had been nothing left for Geoffrey to do but drink himself into a stupor, so he'd got started on that, only to discover that rather than help him relax, drink had served only to make him paranoid — jumping at shadows and searching for the gleam of steel in the dark — and wasn't that just a fitting end to this infernal day?

And he had steadier nerves than this — by God, he did. He had spent half his life scheming and plotting, and leading armies with Hal and Richard, or against Hal and Richard, or against Henry, never once doubting that his titles and power protected him, even as he waged war against the source of that power. But Hal's death in the summer had been an unwelcome reminder that princes died just as easily as anyone else, and frequently more so.

Men of the cloth on both sides of the Channel had been quick to pronounce Young Henry's death a punishment from God for daring to take up arms against his father, against his king, and preached many a sermon on how _other_ sons would do well to take heed and mend their ways or face eternal damnation.

Geoffrey did not fear eternal damnation; he did not fear divine retribution. He did not believe the Almighty would strike him down for his failings as a Christian or a son or a brother. 

But if Geoffrey Plantagenet lacked adequate respect for the wrath of God, this day's events had been a powerful reminder that Henry had a temper to rival His, and a much better vantage point from which to smite him. 

He stared out at the darkened landscape with unseeing eyes. It mattered not. Today was over and tomorrow he would ride back to Brittany, where he'd have a hundred miles and his army between himself and Henry. He just had to keep his wits about him long enough to—

A sudden noise made him spin in place, his dagger coming to a halt just under his brother's throat. Richard gave the dagger an unimpressed look, but made no effort to put some distance between himself and the blade.

"Isn't a knife in the back more your style?" he asked. 

"Turn around," Geoffrey said, lowering it and putting it back in its sheath. "Let's find out." His heart was hammering in his chest and Richard was standing far too close, but Geoffrey had given enough away by letting him startle him. He wasn't about to give away any more by taking a step back. 

"I'm leaving tomorrow," Richard said.

"And you came to say goodbye? How unexpectedly brotherly of you." 

"I came to give you a warning."

"That sounds more like you." Scowling and skulking and issuing idle threats were all things Richard excelled at. "And what shall it be this time? Keep your armies off my lands, Geoffrey? Stop plotting with John, Geoffrey? There isn't a tune of yours I don't know all the steps to." And God help him, but there was something strangely reassuring about that, something oddly grounding, as if all it took for reality to sharpen back into focus was Richard being menacing in his general direction. It was the world as Geoffrey knew it: Christ on the cross, and Henry on the throne, and threats exchanged like caresses in a family where everyone had claws.

Richard's smile was sardonic and sharp and entirely devoid of humour. "You're a smart man, Geoffrey. Smart enough to know which way the wind is blowing, even if John doesn't."

"And you think it's blowing for you? Because I remember you locked in the cellar with the rest of us just this morning."

"And yet here we both are, free men once more. And when I ride back to Poitiers tomorrow, I'll still be the oldest son and the ruler of the richest province on the continent. Our father won't live forever, and John couldn't hold on to a hut, let alone a kingdom. If you were a gambling man, who would you bet on to be next in line for the English throne?"

"I wonder where you and John get the extraordinary notion that you're the only options. My claim is just as good as yours."

"Perhaps. But you've always prided yourself on being the clever one. I doubt you'll choose to fight a war you know you can't win."

"Who says I can't?" 

"With what backing? Who is there who likes the sound of 'King Geoffrey?' Not our father. Not our lady mother, either. Not the Church. Not even Philip. I have the Aquitaine, and the support of the French crown, and I _will_ be king." 

Not if Geoffrey had anything to say about it, he wouldn't. He'd personally hand the crown to John, sell England to the Franks, watch Brittany burn around him before he allowed Richard's smug behind to touch the Coronation Chair, and that was a promise.

"Philip may spread his legs for you, brother, but if you think he will see you crowned king of England, then you're a fool."

"And if you think he'd rather contend with an English king with your brain over one with my armies, then you're an even greater fool than I am."

That surprised a laugh out of Geoffrey. "Careful, Richard. I might just mistake that for a compliment." And wasn't that just a clear sign of the end of times?

"Mistake it for what you like, so long as you remember that one day you'll have to kneel to me, and I'm not likely to forget those who opposed me."

Perhaps the Apocalypse might be postponed yet.

"You take an awful lot for granted. How long do you think you can hold on to the Aquitaine without Henry's assistance? Your barons have all the constancy of a dockside whore. One has but to whisper treason in their ear by morning and watch the blood flow on the streets come lunch time. Hal and I had you all but cornered last time."

"Ah, yes, the golden prince and the puppet master. But you might notice you're short a puppet these days, brother, and my faithless barons won't risk their neck for you. You forget that at your peril. You're no one's first choice, Geoffrey. You've never been. You won't be theirs either."

And had Geoffrey been a little more sober or a lot more drunk, he might just have killed Richard for that. But even if his mind was clouded, his judgement was not, and there was little profit in trying to stab Richard Plantagenet if he could see it coming, even had Geoffrey been in possession of faster reflexes and steadier nerves than he was currently the owner of. 

"Rot in hell, Richard," he said instead, a retort that was neither clever, nor original, nor particularly satisfying, but this day had hollowed out even him, whom no one would ever have suspected of particular depth of feeling. 

"I'll see you there, little brother. And in the meantime, keep your armies off my lands, Geoffrey, and stop plotting with John, Geoffrey. Was that how that went? And next time one of your raiding parties forgets which side of the border is theirs, I'll remind them by impaling their heads on spikes and using them to adorn my halls." 

And with that he turned and left without waiting for a reply, leaving Geoffrey alone with a sheathed dagger and murderous thoughts and enough bile rising in his throat to choke on. 

Because Richard wasn't wrong. He wasn't wrong, and it made Geoffrey want to set the whole damn kingdom on fire just to watch it burn.

Geoffrey was smarter than Hal had been and more capable than John would ever be. And while he might not have Richard's recklessness, there were few men who did (and none of them sane), and he was just as able a military commander as his brother. He stood to make as good a king as any of them, a _better_ king than any of them, and yet he was enough of a realist to know he'd never wear a crown. And if he thought too much about the injustice of that, if he lingered too long on the profound unfairness of it all, he might just do something deeply stupid. 

Geoffrey hadn't minded giving his support to Hal: because he was the oldest; because he was the only one of his brothers Geoffrey did not wish had been drowned in his infancy; because though he would've made a terrible king, he would also have made an extremely biddable one, and that would've suited the man who would've been his chancellor. But now that the Young King was dead — his sunny-tempered brother who had inherited Henry's charm and Eleanor's face and no one's sense — Geoffrey found himself in need of a new king-in-waiting whose strings he could pull. And it galled him that he had to; it aggravated him that he kept having to stroke the ego of lesser men to get his way. 

It infuriated him that Richard was right. 

Henry and Eleanor had raised no children. They had raised princes and dukes and counts, and whatever John was, but no children. Just powerful strangers with too much to prove at each other's expense. 

He stared at the arch that led the stairwell for a solid minute, weighing his options and coming out empty, his mind full of nothing but resentment and anger — at God, at Henry, at Richard. When he finally took a step towards the stairs he wasn't motived by some great strategy, wasn't driven by any semblance of a plan. There was just bitterness and rage and the powerful need to lash out. 

The night was young still, after all, and Richard wasn't the only one who knew where to plunge a knife to make it hurt. 

Richard's young pages started when he stalked into his brother's chamber, one of them almost dropping a flagon of wine, but Richard greeted the intrusion with no more than a raised eyebrow. 

"Lost your way, brother?" he asked, handing his gloves to the sandy-haired boy next to him.

"Get out," Geoffrey said to the pages. The oldest boy, still holding the flagon to his chest, looked to Richard, but the youngest one glared at Geoffrey and raised a hand to the hilt of his dagger, as if it would take no more than a word from his lord for him to strike down a prince, never mind the fact that he was all of five foot nothing and hardly a day over ten.

Richard regarded Geoffrey for a second, his expression inscrutable. And then he nodded at the oldest page, who set down the wine with a small bow and made for the door.

"You too, Thomas," Richard said. Young Thomas looked none too convinced, but he was loyal and he was dutiful and he knew his place, and if his lord chose to humour venomous snakes in his chambers, that was very much his prerogative. He let his hand drop to his side and turned just enough to bow to Richard, departing with a "Yes, my lord," and one last murderous look in Geoffrey's direction.

"Bit small for a guard dog, is he not?" Geoffrey asked, removing his cloak. 

"What do you want, Geoffrey?" Richard poured himself a cup of wine and sank down in a chair, tracking Geoffrey's movements with the relaxed readiness of one predator watching another. Undeterred by the attention, Geoffrey walked around the table and leaned back against it, next to his brother.

"I want a crown," he said, grabbing the cup from Richard and raising it to his lips. "But play your cards right and I might settle for a chancellorship."

Richard narrowed his eyes but made no move to get the cup back. "Why in God's name would I make you my chancellor?"

"Because you would rather have me fight with you than against you."

"Would I indeed?"

Geoffrey shrugged, the answer to that question a matter of profound indifference to him.

"You're the military strategist, brother," he said. "You can threaten me till you're blue in the face, but you and I both know it won't stop me from doing as I please. If you want me to behave, you've got to give me something."

"If a chancellorship were enough to get you to behave, you'd be with John right now."

"Which is why you'll offer me something more."

"Will I?"

"If I give you my support," Geoffrey said, "once you are king you will name me your heir."

It was a credible offer. Something for something else. A big enough prize to keep Geoffrey in line and a high enough cost to make it a believable demand, though not so high Richard might be unwilling to pay it. And yet Geoffrey could tell Richard did not buy it, for all that his brother did nothing more for several seconds than regard him with searching eyes and a guarded expression. 

Richard had a soldier's mind, all of it straight lines and forward charges, but Eleanor of Aquitaine had taught her favourite son more than just poetry and dancing. Christ himself could fly down from the sky on angel wings to usher Richard into the Kingdom of Heaven, and he'd still wonder where the trap was.

"What if I have a son?" he finally asked, as if he were actually considering it.

Geoffrey rolled his eyes. "What if gold falls from the sky? What if Ireland drifts off to sea? I like my odds."

"And how long would I live once I made you my heir?"

"For as long as you could keep yourself alive, brother. Just like now."

Richard snorted and pushed himself to his feet, grabbing another cup and pouring himself a drink. They were now shoulder to shoulder, not a hair's breadth between them. 

"You overestimate your persuasion skills, brother," Richard said, and Geoffrey stared at the cliff's edge for no more than a second before jumping forward.

Richard went very still as Geoffrey placed a hand on his chest, barely seeming to breathe as Geoffrey's fingers trailed downwards. 

"And you underestimate them." He halted the movement when Richard glared at him, but did not remove his hand, keeping it where it was just above his brother's waist. 

"That's a new game," Richard said.

"I'm a quick study. Isn't this how you conduct all your negotiations? Or just the ones with France?" 

Richard leaned towards him, his tone low and dangerous as he said, "If it's damnation you're after, go seek it elsewhere." And with that he stepped away from him, downing the contents of his goblet. 

"Seek it?" Geoffrey's grin might have been a grimace. "There isn't a single one of us who isn't damned already, brother mine, and you're a fool if you think otherwise. No priest alive can hope to forgive as many sins as we are guilty of: wives who make war against their husbands, children who rise up against their parents, brothers who kill brothers—"

"Do not lay Hal at my feet. That was not my doing."

"Was it not? I must have imagined your army encamped outside Limoges."

Richard closed the space between them, fury written all over his face. "What would you have had me do? Roll over and take it while you two plundered my lands and drove my barons to insurrection? And still Hal might have lived had you two fools not resorted to pillaging churches and monasteries. You want to blame someone for his death? Blame God. And blame our halfwit of a brother for defying Him."

"You think his sins greater than yours?" Geoffrey hooked his finger around Richard's belt, and held fast when he would've moved away. They were close enough for Geoffrey to feel the heat radiating off him, to feel the tension coiled just underneath the skin. "What's the point of playing the saint now?" He pressed his knee between Richard's legs, leaning into him. "Is it that you only bed kings, brother?" he asked softly, his gaze dropping to Richard's lips. "Are princes not great enough a prize for Richard the Lionheart?" Geoffrey's smile turned a little vicious as he met his brother's eyes again, a little feral. "Philip wasn't half as coy about taking what he wanted."

A lesser man might have cowed before the flash of rage that flickered across Richard's expression. "You're lying," he all but growled. 

"Am I?" Geoffrey asked, his fury like ice next to Richard's blazing fire. "He's an eager little thing, your French whore." Sometimes it wasn't a matter of strategy. Sometimes it was a matter of pressing something hard enough to break. "Such a pretty mouth he has on him, such clever hands. And it wasn't your name he was moaning while I fuck—"

The back of Geoffrey's legs hit the table as Richard pushed him back, and he had no time to react, no time to so much as utter another word before Richard gripped his throat, fingers clutched painfully around his windpipe. He seized Geoffrey's dagger with his other hand, pressing it hard enough against his chest that Geoffrey felt the familiar warmth of blood spreading where it pierced the skin. 

And part of Geoffrey wanted to flinch back, and part of him wanted to push forward, and even as he struggled to breathe part of him wondered what the penalty for fratricide was. The pope had very nearly excommunicated Henry for that piece of business with Thomas Becket. How much faster would he excommunicate Richard for killing his own brother? 

Geoffrey might not care about the pope's good opinion, but Richard did. His loving brother cared about the state of his immortal soul, unfortunate dalliances with the likes of Philip Capet notwithstanding. Such a public fall from grace might just kill him. Geoffrey would not be around to enjoy it, of course, but no plan was without its drawbacks.

And then, just as quickly as he'd seized him, Richard let go and drew back, and Geoffrey would've fallen if not for the table at his back. He gasped and coughed and desperately tried to regain some measure of composure as the room spun around him and his lungs strongly protested the sudden influx of air.

Richard watched him in silence, his expression dark and forbidding, the dagger harmless at his side.

"Undress," he finally said, and the shock of that was enough for the room to finally still. Geoffrey's surprise must've shown on his face, because a smile broke through Richard's grim countenance — a wolfish grin that was both uncharacteristic and maddeningly smug. "If you're still offering, take your clothes off," he said. "If not, get out of my chambers and stop making a nuisance of yourself."

And it was the smile that did it. That arrogant, self-satisfied, patronising smirk. Richard might think himself smart in calling Geoffrey's bluff, but Geoffrey was incensed enough to be foolish and drunk enough to be reckless, and he wasn't above cutting off his nose to spite his face. Not on this Christmas. He might burn in hell for it, but he'd make sure Richard burned right alongside him. 

He pushed himself off the table, ignoring the way the room was still moving just at the edge of his vision, and started to undo his belt, keeping his eyes firmly on his brother. Richard was no longer smiling, he was no longer moving. He was holding himself so still he might have been carved in stone. He stared at Geoffrey with an inscrutable expression as the younger man rid himself of each item of clothing with short, efficient movements, but it did not take long for his gaze to start wandering over the increasing amount of naked flesh on display. 

Geoffrey had never been afflicted by any false modesty, and he did not feel any now, did not feel anything but smug satisfaction. When Richard met his gaze, Geoffrey couldn't help the smirk tugging at his lips. His brother's expression hardened and Richard closed the space between them with slow, deliberate steps until he was standing right in front of Geoffrey, who was now completely undressed, his clothes scattered on the floor around him, his boots fallen by the table. 

Geoffrey's smile faltered and then fell entirely when Richard touched the tip of his fingers to his chest, just around the edge of where the dagger had dug in. The cut did not hurt, not really; it was just a flesh wound. But that one small touch, that small point of contact, it was almost enough to set his skin ablaze, and Geoffrey was suddenly very aware of the cold air brushing against his skin, very aware of his own nakedness, very aware of Richard's proximity. 

"Like what you see?" he asked, trying for levity, but Richard barely seemed to hear him, his eyes unusually dark as they met his. He cupped the back of Geoffrey's neck with one hand, his thumb brushing lightly over his Adam's apple — a soft pressure that sent shivers down his spine — and then ran his fingers down the side of his neck, soft and gentle, almost like a caress, his hand coming to rest over Geoffrey's shoulder. And then he pressed down. 

"On your knees," he said in a tone that brook no disagreement, the tone of a man used to giving orders and having them obeyed.

Geoffrey hesitated for only a second before dropping to his knees, too proud to back down and too stubborn to be smart. 

"Let's see if we can put that mouth of yours to a better use, shall we?" Richard unlaced his trousers and pulled out his cock, already half hard, and Geoffrey might almost have felt smug about that if it hadn't just dawned on him that he was now at a decided disadvantage. "Open up," Richard said, stroking himself slowly with one hand. He buried the other one in Geoffrey's hair, nudging his head forward, and pushed his cock between his lips. 

Geoffrey resisted the urge to pull back as his brother's thick length filled his mouth, but could not help the instinctive jerk back when it hit the back of his throat. Richard tightened the grip on his hair, keeping his head in place as he started to thrust in and out, his hardening cock stretching Geoffrey's lips with each push forward, its weight hot and heavy on his tongue. 

"Look at me, princeling," Richard demanded, his voice a little breathless, a little rough. "Told you you'd end up on your knees." 

Geoffrey glared, a muffled growl his only answer as he made to push his brother off, but Richard forced his head forward, shoving more of his cock in than before, his hand twisting painfully in Geoffrey's hair. Geoffrey panicked for a brief moment, choking, unable to breathe, kept in place by Richard's iron grip. When his brother finally allowed him to move back slightly, there were tears in his eyes and he struggled to catch his breath, inhaling sharply through his nose, his mouth still full as Richard set a gruelling rhythm, using him as nothing more than a hole to be fucked. 

And Geoffrey — who had been born a prince, who had been served and pampered and waited on his entire life — Geoffrey let him, his hands perfectly still where they had gripped Richard's legs for support. And he was no longer sure who this was supposed to hurt, was no longer sure who he had meant to punish — Richard, Henry, Eleanor, himself; out of habit, out of hatred, out of spite. Eleanor had said he had a gift for hate, and perhaps he did, because just now he might as well be drowning in it. 

* * *

Of all their mother's children, Geoffrey was the one most like her — a pretty face and a sharp tongue, and a mind that saw nothing but plots and schemes and angles. That there _was_ an angle, Richard did not doubt. There always was, where Geoffrey was concerned. But he could not bring himself to care as he buried himself deeper in his brother's mouth, the tight, wet heat of it around his cock an effective distraction from any worldly concerns. 

Geoffrey's muffled sounds — breathy little gasps and strangled moans — reverberated around Richard's cock, drawing a deep groan out of him, and he snapped his hips forward, increasing the speed of his thrusts, relishing the sight of Geoffrey on his knees in front of him, his lips red and swollen around his cock. 

And somewhere on the back of his mind was the realisation that this was madness; somewhere on the back of his mind was the awareness of how deeply wrong, how utterly obscene it all was. And still he carried on. 

Was incest a greater sin than sodomy? Richard did not know, and just then he did not care. It was a question for priests and cardinals, and when he became king he could square it off with the pope. 

Pleasure coiled inside him, and it would have been easy to just give into it and spill his seed in Geoffrey's mouth, but if Richard was going to burn for this either way, he meant to enjoy himself a while yet. With a great effort of will he pulled his cock from between his brother's lips and took a deep breath, trying to get himself under control.

Geoffrey dropped his hands to his side and stayed where he was, on his knees, looking dazed and slightly lost. He was flushed and out of breath, his hair a mess where Richard had pulled at it, his cock hard and heavy between his legs. 

Richard leaned down over him and cupped his face with one hand, tilting it up so that he was looking at him.

"You make for a better whore than you'd make a king, little brother."

Geoffrey's expression sharpened into a glare, fierce and familiar, and he slapped Richard's hand away, swaying unsteadily as he got to his feet. 

"Funny you should say so, _brother_ ," he said, his voice hoarse. "Philip made much the same comment about you."

And the first time Geoffrey had brought up Philip, he had been baiting him — Richard had known as much even as he took the bait, anger overriding common sense — but this wasn't that. This was the resentful petulance of a child lashing out at a rebuke both unexpected and unfair, and Richard couldn't help a soft chuckle as he drew closer to Geoffrey, his hand circling his brother's cock. Geoffrey gasped at the contact, closing his eyes and biting back a moan as Richard ran his thumb along the shaft. 

"Get on the bed, Geoffrey," he whispered in his ear, their heads close together. Geoffrey let out an unsteady breath and leaned his forehead against his shoulder as Richard increased the pressure and slowly stroked him once, two, three times. "Don't make me repeat myself."

Geoffrey gripped his wrist and Richard stopped, letting go easily when his brother took a step back, but still Geoffrey clung to his hand, chest heaving. He closed his eyes for a second before finally letting go, moving towards the bed without meeting Richard's gaze. 

Richard watched him go, his attention enraptured by the sight. Geoffrey had a soldier's body: lean and powerful, with muscles that rippled beneath the skin as he moved, and scars that spoke of a life measured in battles. When he climbed on the bed, his back to him, and pushed himself forward on his hands and knees, Richard's cock twitched in anticipation. 

Geoffrey turned when he felt Richard behind him, backing away until his back was to the pillows and cushions at the head of the bed. Richard straddled his legs, leaning over him, and for a moment neither said a word, neither moved a muscle. The curtains around the bed blocked much of the light, but still Richard could see the familiar traces of Geoffrey's face, the enticing shape of his parted lips. His brother's body felt warm and alive under him, even through Richard's clothes, and God help him, God help them both, for they would surely burn in hell for this. How did one even begin to atone for such a sin? What penance would ever be enough?

Geoffrey placed a hand tentatively on his chest, but Richard grabbed his wrist, manoeuvring it above his head and pinning it there. He grabbed Geoffrey's other hand and did likewise, leaning further down until his face was only a few inches from his. 

"Keep them there, or I will make you wish you had. Do you understand?" Geoffrey nodded, his gaze dropping to Richard's lips. "Say 'I understand,'" Richard said, slightly increasing the pressure on his wrists, and Geoffrey looked back up at him, saying through gritted teeth, "I understand," followed by a groan when Richard pressed his pelvis over his, rubbing their cocks together for one tortuously delicious moment.

"Good," Richard said, breathless himself. Before he could give in to the instinct to start thrusting in earnest, he pulled away. "Stay."

* * *

Geoffrey stared up at the canopy, trying very hard to remember how to breathe. Somewhere out of sight Richard was moving around the room, and if ever there had been a moment to put an end to this insanity, this was it. This was that moment and Geoffrey recognised it as such, even as he dug his fingers into his palms, willing himself to hold still.

Part of him wanted to get up and get dressed and leave all of this behind — Richard and this room and all the tangled, twisted choices that had led them to this moment — and part of him wanted to reach down and take himself in hand and ease some of the aching need driving him to distraction.

And part of him just wanted Richard to come back so he could stop torturing himself with all the ifs and buts chasing each other inside his head.

There was no cardinal sin in their family but stupidity, and Geoffrey was not sure what this was, but smart it was not. It was the very opposite of smart, and the longer he lay there by himself, the cold air leaving a trail of goosebumps over his overheated skin, the more time he had to regret the dark impulse that had led him from the ramparts to his brother's room, to this bed. Decisions born of resentment, rage and hurt pride had landed Eleanor on the wrong side of a locked door for nigh on ten years, and Geoffrey had vowed never to be that much of a fool.

Turned out he was simply a different kind of fool.

The bed dipped when Richard climbed on it, and Geoffrey's mind stilled at the sight of him, restlessness turning into something like relief, turning into something like want. Richard's naked body was like something the Greeks might have fashioned out of a block of marble, all of it wide planes and well-defined muscles. He stretched to place something by the head of the bed and heat flooded Geoffrey's face as his focus turned downwards, his mind filled with the memory of his brother's cock in his mouth, warm and heavy on his tongue, the hard thickness of it pushing his lips apart as Richard thrust into him with single-minded fervour, his fingers — solid and steady on the back of Geoffrey's head — a grounding counterpart to his relentless onslaught.

Richard leaned down next to him, his body solid and warm against Geoffrey's side, his cock hard against his leg, and Geoffrey shifted towards him, badly wanting to give in to the overwhelming desire to touch — Richard, himself, something, anything, before he lost his mind — but Richard seized his arm and held him back down.

"One warning," Richard said, his thumb brushing over the sensitive skin on the inside of his wrist. He chuckled at Geoffrey's frustrated huff of breath. "What was it you said about eager little whores, brother?"

"If you plan to do nought but talk, I warn you that—" Geoffrey threw back his head, stifling a moan as Richard grasped his length, the insistent pressure of his calloused fingers along the sensitive skin enough to leave him gasping for air.

"You talk too much, Geoffrey." Richard stroked him slowly — maddeningly so — and still Geoffrey struggled to control the plaintive sounds that coaxed out of him, needy little moans that would've been embarrassing even had his audience been someone other than Richard. He bit his lip, leaning his face against his brother's shoulder, eyes closed, his breathing shallow and uneven. "No, you don't," Richard said, nuzzling the side of his face. "Look at me." Geoffrey gasped as Richard cupped his balls. "Right now, princeling."

Geoffrey had time to glare at his brother for only a second before his mind went blank as Richard thumbed the tip of his cock, drawing maddening little circles that were both too much and not enough — not nearly enough — and perhaps it mattered not whether they were both bound for the fiery pits of hell, for this was torture right here.

Richard wrapped his fingers around his cock and Geoffrey couldn't help the sharp jerk of his hips, instinctively seeking more friction, more speed, more something — he did not even know what. Richard immediately let go, and Geoffrey could have sobbed or begged or stabbed Richard for his amused smirk, visible even in the dim light.

"Will you stop tormenting me already and get on with it?" His voice sounded off to his own hears — raspy and hoarse, and cracking around the edges.

Rather than reply, Richard pressed a hand to his hip and leaned against him, kissing the side of his neck before scraping his teeth across the sensitive skin there.

"Richard," Geoffrey had meant it as a growl, but it came out a whine, needy and breathless, and under different circumstances he might have cared, but just then there was no space inside his mind for anything but his aching cock, and the anchoring pressure of Richard's fingers holding him down, and the warmth of his brother's body flush against his.

"Had I but known what a wanton little thing you are," Richard said, sitting up and looking as wrecked as Geoffrey felt, his cock red and leaking between his legs, "I'd have handed you over to my men and let them take turns." He reached behind Geoffrey for a corked vial and placed a knee between his legs, nudging them open. "I might still, when I'm done with you."

And there was bound to be a clever retort to that, something cutting and biting and sharp. And some other version of Geoffrey, one not currently on his back with his legs spread open, might have uttered such words, but just then it was all he could do to hold still and try to remember to breathe, unease and anticipation coiling in his stomach as he watched Richard pour some of the contents of the vial on his hand, rubbing it over his fingers.

Richard gaze never left his, his features at once familiar and foreign, his eyes completely dark as he leaned forward and spread Geoffrey's cheeks with firm hands, pressing one finger over the entrance to his body, rubbing little circles over it, soft and soothing. And then he pressed inside and Geoffrey's breath hitched, his hips jerking up almost against his will. Richard held him down and kept pushing in until his whole finger was inside him, hard and unyielding and strange, and Geoffrey could not stop a strangled whine when he started moving it in and out, his muscles clenching around it.

Richard bent down over him and pressed his tongue to his left nipple, licking it and sucking it and nibbling it in turn. And Geoffrey, who had never had to learn self-restraint, who had pressed his luck enough this night that he might as well press it a little further, he lifted his hand from where Richard had held it against the mattress — from where Richard had very specifically instructed him not to move it — and touched it tentatively to his brother's head before giving in fully to the impulse to bury his fingers in his hair. Richard glanced up, meeting his gaze, and Geoffrey ran his fingers over his scalp, a wordless entreaty — for what, he knew not.

Pushing himself up, Richard kissed him, his tongue hot and wet against his, and Geoffrey kissed him back, lightheaded and dizzy with relief. He gasped against Richard's mouth as his brother pushed another finger inside him, the burning feeling just one more thread in the tapestry of things vying for his attention. Richard nuzzled his cheek, muttering soothing nothings, and Geoffrey turned his face towards him, kissing him again, feeling oddly adrift, held together only by Richard's lips on his, hot and demanding, by his weight half on top of him, and by his fingers pressed deep inside him, hard and insistent and stretching him open.

More of Richard's weight shifted onto him as Richard reached up with his free hand, seizing Geoffrey's wrist and holding it back down.

"Last warning," he said, his tone strained and laboured. "Move it again and I'll tie you up and leave you like this for the servants to find."

And that might have sounded more ominous were it not for the impatient kisses punctuating the words, or the involuntary pressure of his hips against Geoffrey's leg, his cock hard between them.

Geoffrey laughed, feeling strangely euphoric.

"You're losing your touch, brother," he said as Richard pressed a line of kisses down his chest. "Your threats lack convic—"

The whole world seemed to shift, and for a moment Geoffrey could not even remember what words were, let alone how to string them together into anything resembling a coherent sentence. Reality shrunk to the wet, hot tightness of his brother's mouth around his cock, to the maddening pressure of his tongue against it, to the obscene, filthy, intoxicating sight of him between his legs, his head bobbing up and down over Geoffrey's cock, his fingers buried deep inside him.

Richard pushed a third finger in and Geoffrey gasped and moaned and tried hard to be good and not reach down to him. His brain struggled to take in the sensory overload pulling him in opposite directions, and there wasn't enough air in the world to fill his lungs, and dear God where had Richard even learned to do that with his tongue?

When Geoffrey came it was like a wave crashing against the shore — sudden and overwhelming and inevitable. Pleasure washed over him, every last nerve in his body lighting up like lightening, hot and bright, and for a moment he knew no more of the world, no more of existence than he could feel on the surface of his skin and deep in his core. 

Richard sat up, carefully pulling out his fingers, and Geoffrey whined a little, feeling suddenly empty and unmoored, light enough to float away. Something settled inside him when Richard lay down next to him, however, his hand warm on his face and his lips soft and familiar as he kissed him, slow, languid kisses that Geoffrey attempted to return as he gradually floated back down to earth. 

When Richard nudged him to turn over he went easily, too relaxed and loose-limbed to do anything but do as he was told. He let Richard position him, even pushing himself up enough for him to slide a pillow under his stomach. For Geoffrey, whose brain never stopped working, whose mind never stopped moving, there was luxury in this easy acquiescence, in a world slowed down to simple choices and a desire to please. He hummed appreciatively when Richard ran a hand down his back, sighed contently as his brother placed a kiss over his spine. 

The whole world existed in gentle tones and soft hues, and Geoffrey felt warm and drowsy and content. Chinon and all its troubles seemed very far away.

As soon as Richard started pushing into him, however, Geoffrey's heart sped up, the blunt pressure against his hole sharpening into a burning pain as his body struggled to accommodate Richard's thick length. His brother's cock felt much larger than his fingers had, and Geoffrey tensed up despite himself, his hands balling into fists by his side. He turned his face into the bed covers, shutting his eyes, unable to stop the small whimper that escaped him.

Bending down over him, Richard wrapped an arm around his chest, holding him up against him. 

"Breathe, Geoff," he said, and something inside Geoffrey shattered at the use of that childhood nickname. "Try to relax." Richard kissed the side of his neck, where it met his shoulder, and Geoffrey turned his face towards him, chasing the contact. It was a small parody of affection, but he clung to it all the same.

Slowly, carefully, patiently, Richard pushed in inch by inch and Geoffrey relaxed by degrees, his muscles gradually adjusting around the hard member. Tension reverberated across the points where they touched. By the time Richard was completely sheathed inside of him, they were both shaking, and Geoffrey was starting to get hard again himself. 

Richard tightened his arm around him, pressing his forehead against Geoffrey's back, his breathing shallow and uneven as he struggled to hold still, to give Geoffrey time to adjust. And there was something both aggravatingly predictable and entirely unsurprising about Richard being a chivalric fool even in this.

"Move," Geoffrey croaked, the pressure nigh on unbearable. "Richard." He clenched his muscles and Richard moaned loudly, snapping his hips against Geoffrey's almost unwittingly. Once he started moving, there was no going back. He drove into him with big, powerful thrusts, his fingers digging into his sides, and Geoffrey did not even try to control the moans and sighs and little gasps that drew out of him. Pleasure swelled up inside him. His cock was hard and throbbing between his legs, and it wouldn't take much for him to come again just like this, untouched. 

Geoffrey almost sobbed when Richard pulled out of him. "No," he said, the sound less a word and more a frustrated huff. 

Richard kissed the back of his neck, running a soothing hand along his side. "Patience, little brother." 

Geoffrey turned around at his urging, his arms high up by his head where Richard had positioned them before, because Geoffrey could be good — he absolutely could — and he would do anything, anything at all, if Richard would but touch him again, if Richard would but stop toying with him. 

His brother leaned over him, his lips on his stopping Geoffrey's incessant babble. Richard made soothing sounds with the back of his throat as he kissed him, his hands warm and steady as he ran them along the curve of his back and over his buttocks. 

He sat back on his heels, hooking his arms under Geoffrey's legs, and Geoffrey barely had time to mourn the loss of his body warmth before Richard lined his cock with his entry, sinking into him with a groan. Small waves of pleasure rippled over him as Richard thrust into him, and then Richard angled his hips slightly differently and stars exploded behind Geoffrey's eyes. He arched off the bed, too breathless even to give shape to the moan rising in his throat.

"God Almighty," he finally managed. "Jesus Christ, Richard. Please. Just— Please, please, please." And he wasn't even sure who he was addressing, Richard or God; was not even sure what he was asking for: permission or approval or absolution. 

Richard bent down over him, his lips seeking Geoffrey's, the rapid movement of hips never slowing as he drove his cock deeper inside his brother. 

"Shhhh," he whispered, his forehead pressed against Geoffrey's. "It's okay. Go— Go on. Touch yourself. Let me— Let me see."

And it was as much permission as Geoffrey needed. He wrapped his hand around his leaking cock and stroked himself in time with Richard's increasingly frantic thrusts. It took no more than a few seconds for him to come all over himself, pleasure flooding every inch of his body and knocking the air out of him. Richard wasn't much far behind, spilling into him with a deep moan, his body shaking and shuddering against his before he collapsed on top of him . 

For several moments neither of them moved, neither of them spoke. Their laboured breathing seemed loud in the quiet room, drowning even the soft crackling of the fire. Richard was a pleasant weight on top of Geoffrey, his softening cock still buried inside him, and in that one moment Geoffrey needed nothing else in the world — not kingdoms nor duchies nor crowns. Just that small island of calm contentment, where even his clever thoughts and cunning plans had grown quiet enough to ignore. 

When Richard pulled out of him and rolled to the side, Geoffrey felt suddenly empty and cold. He followed the movement, nestling against his brother's side, too spoilt and self-indulgent to deny himself the things he wanted. And just then he wanted Richard. There. Close enough to touch. 

Richard lifted his arm to let him settle closer against him, unusually indulgent, and dropped the tip of his fingers to Geoffrey's head, running them softly across his scalp. 

And despite the enormity of what they had just done, despite the sticky mess on his stomach and between his legs, despite the unmitigated disaster of a Christmas they had just lived through, Geoffrey felt relaxed and content and pleasantly drowsy, just at the line between wakefulness and sleep. When Richard got up, Geoffrey rolled to that side of the bed, chasing the last of the warmth. Perhaps if he held very still, he could cling to it for just a bit longer. 

When a cup shattered against the wall across the room, Geoffrey was neither startled nor surprised. Richard was always going to be the first one to locate his missing conscience — Geoffrey did not have much of one to misplace to begin with — but he did wish his brother could have left it for a while yet. 

Because if ordinarily Geoffrey would've been more than happy to let Richard stew in his own moral quagmire — that had been much of the goal of this misbegotten enterprise, after all — now that it was here he found that he did not much care for it. Geoffrey did not want another scene. He was so very tired of them. He just wanted to enjoy the afterglow for a few more minutes.

He got up with a sigh, stopping long enough to wipe himself down with the edge of the bed cover. Richard was hunched over the table, his hands balled into fists against the dark wood, his shoulders shaking. Geoffrey leaned his forehead against his brother's naked back, wrapping an arm around him.

"Leave the self-flagellation till the morning, will you please?"

Just a few more minutes. It was all he wanted. They could always fight another war come Easter.

Richard was still for long enough that Geoffrey feared it a lost cause, but then he took a deep breath, and his shoulders dropped, and he covered Geoffrey's hand with his. Geoffrey relaxed against him, drained and relieved.

Why must families be so complicated?

* * *

Geoffrey took the steps two at a time, in an uncommonly cheerful mood. The courtyard was full of people — peasants and servants and knights, all busying themselves with travel arrangements and daily chores and idle gossip. He immediately spotted Richard, already on horseback, surrounded by members of his household. Their eyes met and Geoffrey made an exaggerated obeisance, smirking a little. Richard held his gaze for a heartbeat and then looked away, giving the order to ride. Young Thomas the Page held back just long enough to glare at Geoffrey before turning his horse to follow the rest of Richard's party.

Geoffrey headed for his own horse, flinching a little when he sat on the saddle, but even that small discomfort was not enough to dampen his good spirits.

"Home, my lord?" asked Robert FitzWilliam, head of his household knights. Geoffrey looked towards the gate, deep in thought.

"No," he finally said, a smile spreading across his face. "Paris. We shall pay a visit to our friend, the French king."

It was a new day, after all, full of nothing but possibilities. And Philip enjoyed a bit of mischief as well as anyone. Particularly where England was concerned.

Especially where Richard was concerned.


End file.
